


Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

by azure_horizon



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is hopelessly in love and doesn't know it, Alexander is married, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But it will work out, Chief of Staff Hamilton, Dreams, F/M, M/M, Romance, not a reincarnation fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure_horizon/pseuds/azure_horizon
Summary: It’s not the first time he’s had the dream; he doubts it will be the last.He blinks the sleep from his eyes, staring at the floor from the edge of the bed and Eliza’s gentle rustle sends a rush of agony through him. He clenches his jaw, flipping over to grip at the spot just under his ribs and feels as though he is being torn apart from the inside; it’s not like being shot – he’s had that dream, too –; it’s worse and cloying and it aches and it burns and Alexander can’t-He sits, the damp sheet falling to his lap and he looks around the almost pitch black room. The air is thick and heavy and feels like the middle of the night but he knows he won’t get back to sleep until he assuages the burning in his chest because all he can think, all he can feel is that John Laurens is dead.





	1. The muttering retreats

  
  


_ For I have known them all already, known them all: _

_ Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, _

_ I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; _

_ I know the voices dying with a dying fall _

_ Beneath the music from a farther room. _

**_The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot_ **

  
  


Alexander wakes with a start, his breath suffocating him from the inside. He mouths at the darkness surrounding him, the air around him trying to flee from his feeble attempts to breathe.

 

_ ‘Alexander there’s a letter for you from South Carolina.’ _

It’s not the first time he’s had the dream; he doubts it will be the last.   
  


He blinks the sleep from his eyes, staring at the floor from the edge of the bed and Eliza’s gentle rustle sends a rush of agony through him. He clenches his jaw, flipping over to grip at the spot just under his ribs and feels as though he is being torn apart from the inside; it’s not like being shot – he’s had that dream, too –; it’s worse and cloying and it  _ aches _ and it  _ burns _ and Alexander  _ can’t- _

 

He sits, the damp sheet falling to his lap and he looks around the almost pitch black room. The air is thick and heavy and feels like the middle of the night but he knows he won’t get back to sleep until he assuages the burning in his chest because all he can think, all he can feel is that  _ John Laurens is dead.  _

 

Beside him, Eliza shifts slightly before turning onto her back.

 

“Alexander?” Her voice is quiet, gentle and slurred and the hand that touches his arm is warm and slender and entirely  _ too much _ . He jerks away from her, disguises it by running his hand through his hair. That, too, is damp. “Are you… What’s wrong?”

 

He shakes his head, not looking at her. 

  
“Nothing,” he murmurs and he can feel her shift to her elbows beside him so he turns and smiles down at her. “Nightmare,” he reveals and he can see her lips shift in the darkness and he hates the compassion that passes over her face. “I have to…”

 

It takes a moment but she nods and he can feel her eyes watching him as he slides out of the bed. He casts around for something to wear then remembers that it’s the middle of the night and that it doesn’t matter. He grabs his phone from its place on the nightstand, the screen illuminating at his touch to tell him that it’s 3:14 am: far too early, or far too late he’s not sure but even just having it in his hand he can feel the chasm in his chest shrink.

 

He closes the door behind him on Eliza’s sigh as he waits for the call to connect, the hallway floor cold against his feet. It centres him, slightly, gives him something to focus on as he waits through the  _ drr-drr  _ of the call connecting.

 

“Alexander?” He breathes out, a huge puff of air that almost echoes in the darkness and Alexander can feel his chest hollow out again before it passes. “Are you alright?” Alexander can’t answer, the relief rushing through him like the grief had just minutes before drowning him and he can feel the tears spring anew. “The dream?” Alexander nods, even though he knows John can’t see him. “Shit…” Over the line, Alexander can hear the slide of sheets and he imagines John sitting up in bed, maybe swinging his legs over the side. “What… What time is it?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Alexander says by way of an answer and he can hear John breathe and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard for a long time. 

 

“Don’t-” he breaks off, a muffled sound in the background and Alexander winces when he realises what - if not  _ who _ \- it is. “It’s my friend, go back to sleep.” There’s more rustling and John murmurs sorry again and again and Alexander wants to hang up. Wants to apologise again and hang up because this is ridiculous. “I’m here,” John says aloud and the sound travels directly into Alexander’s chest, binding around all the broken pieces that the dream had created there. “Me or you?”

 

Alexander’s breath catches in the back of his throat when he breathes in and he sounds  _ broken _ , he knows he does but he can’t help it. 

 

“You,” he manages after a few seconds of gawping at the air and he can hear John hiss.

 

“I’m here, Alex. I’m alive.”

 

Alexander makes it to the sofa in the living room, dropping down into the band of filmy white light that has dribbled across the room and he imagines he can feel the coolness of the moon’s rays across his legs. 

 

“I know.”

 

John huffs out a laugh and Alexander feels his lips pull up into a smile. 

 

“No, you don’t. Not yet, anyway, or you wouldn’t have called me at… whatever God awful time this is.”

 

“Three fifteen.” He pauses again, his head dropping back against the cushions. “I just… I needed to hear… you know.” There’s a beat of silence then John’s affirmation. “It feels like… like a memory, you know? Like I really  _ did  _ feel that at one point and it kills me - it kills me, John and I can’t- I can’t imagine having to go on after… Hearing…” he squeezes his eyes again, a sob making its way up into his throat and out of his mouth. “How does… How…”

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

They’re both quiet for a long moment, Alexander urging his heart to unclench from where it’s ripping itself to shreds in his chest - like the feeling from the dream, but different. 

 

_ ‘I have so much work to do.’ _

 

Right here, right now, it seems inconceivable that Alexander would be able to do  _ anything _ let alone  _ work  _ with the pain that bursts in his chest every time he has the dream. He hadn’t realised it - hadn’t even considered it a possibility, not even when John had shipped off to Iraq for any of his three tours - that John Laurens’ death would be his worst nightmare. 

 

Or, at least, he hadn’t wanted to admit it as a possibility. In his worst moment - not quite like now, there are nights when it takes Eliza calling John in a panic to fully rouse Alexander from the hell inside his head - he fears that  _ this  _ is the dream and that John Laurens is actually, really, truly dead. That John’s voice, John’s breathing on the other end of the line isn’t real; that the pain in his chest, that the empty abyss is all that there is for him. In these moments, in these dark, quiet moments of just him, his pain and John, Alexander can’t conceptualise a world outwith it; can’t understand that his wife is in the other room, no doubt lying awake worrying about him; that he can’t be consumed by the pain, nor can he be truly comforted by any absence of it. 

 

“Are you breathing, Alexander?”

 

Alex laughs slightly, knowing that he had in fact not been breathing.

 

“I am now.” He sighs, lets himself fall sideways on the sofa and drags a pillow under his head. Just the sound of John’s voice is slowly pulling him back together, the first few shards sliding back into place.

 

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

 

Alexander does  _ not  _ want to tell him about it, and John knows that. Alexander also  _ has  _ to talk about it in order to process it, which John also knows. So he tells him: tells him about the letter that is read aloud in Eliza’s voice; about the spear through his chest when she tells him it is not from John Laurens, but still from South Carolina; about the white-hot anguish that burns a hole through his body as she tells him that John Laurens is dead; about the feeling of suffocating upon waking at the thought that it was  _ real _ ; about how it is even worse than the dream he has about himself dying; an infinity of pain and worry and outright  _ despair  _ that follows him every time he sleeps because he knows he will have one dream or the other because he’s had one every night since he watched Laurens ship out five years ago. It hadn’t mattered that John, that Eliza, Lafayette - hell even Washington - had told him John was a doctor, not a soldier but - he is an  _ army doctor _ and he’d been going to Iraq, where there is a  _ war _ and Alexander wasn’t going with him to make sure he remembers that he is a  _ doctor _ not a  _ soldier _ and oh why had Alexander decided on politics instead of fighting? 

 

_ ‘There’s more than one way to serve your country, Alexander,’ John had said, ‘You’re doing yours, I’m doing mine.’ _

  
  


“I’m not dead, Alexander, and neither are you.” Alexander nods again, lets himself feel his mind beginning to knit back together. “And besides, you’d know long before any letter got to you because I’d be haunting your ass so hard you’ll wish it had been a letter instead.” Alexander wants to laugh, he really does but he can’t - not yet. “Can you imagine the pranks I’d pull on you if I was a ghost? You’d be calling for an exorcism within hours.”

 

“I’d never exorcise your ghost,” Alexander says before he can really process it, “it’d be all I’d have left of you.”

 

He hears John’s breath hitch slightly, the words hitting a mark that Alexander hadn’t been aiming for but then John covers it with a small laugh, quiet and airy and Alexander can’t help but melt into the sound. He’s familiar with that sound from their friendship and from his dreams both. It’s an echo of another time, another place, another moon in a cold valley shielded by a thin tent and not much else but John’s quiet laugh and skin, warm and gold in the diaphanous light of the late October night.

 

“Nah, man… I’d at least leave you my book collection and maybe some of my hoodies.” Alexander smiles, the echo-memory-dream slipping away. “You should go back to sleep if you can, Alex. You have a big day tomorrow.”

 

“I have big days every day,” Alex retorts and John laughs, familiar and welcome and... “When are you coming home?”

 

John hesitates, the silence dragging on a fraction too long. Alexander notices, files it away for later for when he’s more awake, for when he’s more whole. 

 

“A couple of weeks. I have a few things to tidy up down here in SoCar-”

 

“No-one,  _ no-one _ calls it that, John.”

 

“-then I’m heading to New York, then I’ll be in D.C.,” he continues, ignoring Alexander’s interruption entirely. “Go to sleep, Alexander.”

 

There’s so much that Alexander wants to say; so much he wants to ask because usually, John is much…  _ more _ than this. Especially when Alexander is fracturing around the edges after a dream; usually he’ll let Alexander fall asleep to the sound of his voice, or his breathing; he never tells Alexander to get some sleep; never tries to usher him off the line. In the morning, Alexander will be more confused, a little more hurt, but for now he is simply too brittle to be any of those things. 

 

“John, I-” he starts but he doesn’t know what else to say. ‘I’ - what? ‘I want you to talk me to sleep’? ‘I want you to come home’? ‘I want you here so I can touch you so I know you’re real and alive and  _ not dead _ ’? He wants all of those things and none of those things all at once and he can’t figure out any of it, especially not now. Especially not in the milky, murky midnight morning where memories, dreams and  _ here _ all blend into one as it is wont to do in the aftermath of a John-death-dream. “Thank you,” he says instead and rings off, not allowing John the opportunity to reply. 

 

When his phone vibrates  _ buzz-buzz _ on his chest a few seconds later he opens his eyes for the first time in minutes, squinting against the glare. 

 

There, on his screen, is John. Rumpled, hair longer than it’s been in years, pale, shirtless, a little dopey looking but  _ oh so alive.  _ Alexander stares at it for a moment - too long, really, but he needs this, needs to know John is alive - before he replies, the written ‘really, thank you’ not even close to reflecting the overwhelming rush of… of…  _ life _ that Alexander feels. He drops the phone to his chest, throws an arm over his eyes and… 

 

The dream, this time, is also familiar: John at Alexander and Eliza’s wedding, looking only slightly ridiculous in the kilt Alexander had been adamant they all wear because how could they not with a name like  _ Alexander Hamilton _ ? Eliza is radiant, guffawing at John’s best man speech (Alexander has blocked this from his memory, no one needs to remember John attempting to improv a rap along to  _ Gangster Paradise)  _ and Alexander is  _ happy.  _ In the dream, John’s distance is less palpable than it had been on the day; in the dream, Alexander’s happiness more all-encompassing than he remembers it being on the day; in the dream, he dances with John as well as Eliza but he never remembers that part when he wakes. 

 

The dream doesn’t end the same way as the reality had; with Alexander watching John ship out to Iraq for the first tour not even four months after the best man’s speech. In the dream, they stay at his wedding, they stay happy and Alex never feels the fear that consumes him as he watches John drive away, that plagues his every security briefing, that almost ruins his marriage.

 

In this dream, he has it all. 

 

When he wakes, the pain has shifted, muted, a dull murmur in the glossy morning light that streaks across his naked body. It’s muted but not gone - never gone - and Alexander wonders how much more of another time’s memories he can take. 


	2. Cold Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is struggling in the aftermath of another dream and there are so many things to blame.

_ I'm on the corner, waiting for a light to come on _

_ That's when I know that you're alone _

_ It's cold in the desert, water never sees the ground _

_ Special unspoken without sound _

**_Cold Desert - Kings of Leon_ **

  
  
  
  


When Alexander thinks about John Laurens it’s with a hazy sort of inclarity. He doesn’t really remember how they met, or where or when - he only remembers the existence of John in his life. Which is strange. To Alexander, he has known John forever but for less time than he’s known Eliza yet when asked she would say that John had been in Alexander’s life longer than she had. Lafayette says the same but he remembers a time when he’d known John and he’d known Alexander but they hadn’t known each other. Which is, again, strange because Alexander only remembers being friends with Lafayette-and-John. 

 

Not that it matters, really. Alexander blames the dreams. 

 

He’d sat one day with a pen and a pad of paper and, instead of writing remarks for a speech to the American Federation of Teachers, he had tried to suss out how he had met John Laurens. They hadn’t been on the same course at college; neither had they lived in the same dorms and Alexander is pretty sure that John Laurens hails from South Carolina rather than Nevis, despite both places having a capital called Charlesto(w)n. He’d wrestled with his memory for almost forty-five minutes before giving up and texting John whose reply had been a rather unhelpful  _ ‘Forever it seems’ _ six hours later. 

 

He’s thinking about it again four days after the latest dream, in his office next door to the Oval Office, avoiding writing a speech for the Veterans of Foreign Wars Committee (not because he doesn’t think it’s worth his best attempt but because he cannot help but think of  _ John _ in a foreign war). He taps his pen against his desk, a quick staccato that has Wolcott sticking his head around the office door and frowning. 

 

“Go away,” Alexander barks and Wolcott rolls his eyes before closing the door between Alexander and the outer office.  He sighs, dropping the pen onto the desk and considers dishing this speech out to the actual speech writers instead of using it as an excuse to hide from affairs of State. He kind of misses writing the speeches, knowing that Washington will have him look over the biggies anyway and usually he can fire out a speech for the Veterans in about thirty minutes - a gentle reprieve from the insanity of the Chief of Staff’s regular day on the run up to the State of the Union - but today is not that day. 

 

Today, Alexander cannot concentrate. This is usually a prelude to an even worse night and he considers asking Nancy to dope him with some of the herbal sleep aid she’s always offering him but then he eyes the stack of papers that need his attention, and thinks about the NSC briefing later, and the cabinet meeting, and the Political Affairs, never mind a quick glance over the White House Personnel briefing papers. 

 

The clock ticks it’s way to noon and Alexander decides it’s time for lunch. 

 

\--

 

It’s not a total waste of an hour. He manages to read his way through Wolcott’s concisely bullet pointed review of the proposals for the NEC and a few bills being introduced in the house and signs off on the remarks for Angelica to issue to the press. He even manages to respond to some less than formal emails asking for help in engaging the National Cathedral in a really strange attempt to modernise Christmas (which is still  _ months _ away). His response had been nothing less than scathing and he’d copied in one of the underlings whose name he could remember from the last time he visited the OEOB all the while stuffing orange jelly into his mouth. 

 

“You’ve been avoiding me, Alex.” He stills at the voice and pretends he doesn’t hear it, hoping that she will disappear. “You forget I can find out where you are with a text message.”

 

He sighs and turns to her. 

 

“Ma’am,” he murmurs. “As if I’d ever try to avoid you.” She smirks and an eyebrow inches up fractionally. “Not intentionally, anyway.” They stare at each other across the table, the First Lady looking entirely out of place in the staff canteen. It takes a few moments but he eventually clears his throat and looks away. “How can I help you?”

 

“We’ve not seen you in the residence in a while,” she replies and he simply stares at her. “And I don’t think your wife has seen much of you either.”

 

“Perks of the job, I guess. I’m sure she’s glad of the peace and quiet.” Mrs Washington hums, although Alexander can’t tell if it’s in agreement or not. “I’m sure you didn’t come to the canteen to…”

 

“No.” She looks up. “It’s this bill that’s been introduced to the house - the one that has-”

 

“Marriage incentives - I know. Don’t worry, we’re working on it. It won’t even cross his desk, you don’t have to worry.”

 

She smiles. 

 

“You know how he gets.” Alexander nods, hoping that she’ll go. She doesn’t and he sighs. “You look pale, Alexander.” He tries to laugh, shrug it off but she catches his eye and he is struck by the weight of worry he sees there. “Eliza told me you’re still having-”

 

“She shouldn’t have said anything,” he snaps and only momentarily regrets it when she tilts her head at him. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not.” She pauses, casting her eyes around the room, at the way the people avoid him - have been avoiding him for weeks now. “You miss him,” she states simply and Alexander doesn’t know what to do about the knot that has formed in his chest at her words. He opens his mouth to retort but she holds her hand up to silence him. “Don’t deny it. You do and that’s okay. But George has mentioned it a few times-” and the  _ shame _ Alexander feels at those words is almost overwhelming - “and I can’t have any of that interfering with the running of this office.”

 

He snaps his eyes up to look at her. 

  
“Excuse me? If the President isn’t satisfied with my work then-”

 

“Be quiet and listen, Alexander. That is not what I’m saying. Have you written the speech for the Veterans yet?” He scowls, unable to disagree with her tone. “You begged for that for weeks and now he’s chasing you for a draft.” She sighs. “You need to speak to someone.”

 

“I’m speaking to you. Albeit reluctantly.”

 

“No, you’re hiding in the cafeteria from your job and pretending that you’re fine. You’re not fine and you’ve not been fine for years.” He looks at her, trying not to let any of the  _ brokenness _ show on his face. “He was shot, Alexander, but he’s fine.” Alexander forces himself not to look away from her at that. “You have your wife, you have this job, you have responsibilities bigger than you. You need to…”

 

His phone buzzes on the table and he tries not to look away from her but she glances down at the screen, a soft smile drifting over her lips and he follows her gaze.  **John** flashes up on the screen, a text message of five or six words and Alexander’s fingers itch to reach out and grab the phone, consume the message. He’s not spoken to John since 3.20am four mornings ago and they’ve gone much longer without conversation before but never after one of the dreams, never after John had ushered him off the phone with a prod to sleep, never with Alexander still feeling broken after one of their conversations. 

 

“I have work to do,” he murmurs, tearing his gaze away from the screen of the phone as he reaches for it, pocketing it as he stands. It takes a moment but Mrs Washington purses her lips and rises to stand across from Alexander. “It was nice to speak with you, Martha, I’ll stop by the residence before the week’s out.”

 

She smiles. 

 

“Be sure that you do. Bring Eliza.”

 

He nods once and pivots on his heel and leaves the canteen, pretty sure Martha Washington watches him the entire way. 

 

His phone stays untouched in his pocket.

 

\--

 

Much later, after the NSC briefing, after the meetings, after he fires out a draft of the speech for the Veterans he takes his phone from his pocket and reads the message from John. 

 

_ ‘Why is it so cold already?” _

 

Alexander takes a breath, looks out to the dark sky illuminated with a thousand light bulbs that catch the gentle glint of the ice that is masquerading as air in DC this late October. The peace that is promised outside belies the controlled mayhem in the White House with the State of the Union just around the corner but a little splinter of that peace has found its way into Alexander’s office, into his hand, into his mind and he can’t help but smile. 

 

_ ‘You’re just used to the desert.’ _

 

He puts the phone down, face flat on the desk and scrubs a hand over his face. How is it possible that he needs this? He’d spent the last few mornings, awake at 3.13am as usual, staring at the picture John had sent him, reminding himself that it’s okay to sleep. That John is safe, that Eliza is beside him, that he needs to be able to function like a normal human being but there’s been something fraying inside him, manic and black and unstoppable and it’s thinning each night he goes without the dream, without John’s voice and he can’t help but feel like he’s waiting on  _ something _ happening. 

 

He tries to blame the work, the State of the Union, the lack of sunlight he’s seen.

 

_ ‘It’s cold in the desert, too.’ _

 

But he knows it’s none of those things. He knows that Martha Washington was right. 

 

He misses John. 

 

It’s been nearly a year and John’s been back in the US for almost two months and it is unfathomable to him that he has not seen him yet; that John had gone back to  _ South Carolina _ of all places rather than the New York or DC where he normally would. South Carolina is no more home to John than Nevis is to Alexander. 

 

He’s about the reply when another message comes through, from Eliza, asking when he will be home. 

 

‘Soon, my love. Just packing up.’

 

He pockets the phone again, slipping into his overcoat and lifting his bag from where he’d thrown it (much to Wolcott’s chagrin) on the new leather Chesterfield. The routine of signing out of the building is comforting, the nods to the ever present gaggle of people, the quiet goodbyes, the stopping to confer with legislators and writers and other staff and he enjoys it, allows it to centre him. 

 

Outside, the late October dusk is obscured by the light pollution but he can feel the cold air crystalise his thoughts. He fishes his phone, snaps a picture of the White House as he leaves it and sends it to John with the message ‘It’s still 21 degrees, loser’ although what he really wants to say is ‘ _ This should be where you come to work every day _ ’ or  _ ‘You really fucked me over the other night by telling me to go to sleep _ ’ or ‘ _ I’m scared to sleep _ ’.

 

He will go home and he will have dinner with the woman he loves, he may even have a glass of wine. He will watch some television, he will do what husbands and wives do and he will love his wife the way she deserves. 

 

He will do these things and he will pretend that he’s not waiting for the world to fall down around him. 

 

In the car that takes him home, he fields calls from anxious staffers, chats about the upcoming football match with his driver, and he exchanges a few more light-hearted messages with John.

 

It’s so normal that Alexander starts to vibrate in his skin, his thumb shivering against the screen underneath it, unable to formulate a response to John’s latest retort about warm-bloodedness and the cold. He’s thinking about rolling the window of the car down and throwing his phone out of it when it starts vibrating in his hand, long  _ brrrrrs _ that indicate an incoming call. He stares at John’s stupid face for a beat too long before he answers, his voice far more composed than he expected it to be.

 

“Hey?”

 

“I can feel you freaking out from here,” John says by way of greeting and Alexander wants to scream or laugh but the sound that comes out is all air. “What’s wrong?”

 

He wants to say  _ nothing _ , or  _ just tired _ , or  _ I’m busy _ .

 

What he says instead is “You called me Alex” and- what? Where had that come from? Why was… What?

 

“What?”

 

“The other night, you told me to go to sleep and you called me Alex. You never call me Alex.”

 

John is quiet on the other end of the line and Alexander knows he’s being ridiculous like - what even is that? How is that a thing that even came out of his mouth, never mind came into his brain? It’s actually embarrassing and far too revelatory. 

 

“I… don’t remember? I didn’t even realise.” He pauses, probably waiting for Alexander to fill the silence but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry but it wasn’t intentional.” He pauses again and Alexander thumps his head against the glass in utter disdain at himself. “Alexander, are you all right?”

 

And Alexander doesn’t miss the way John emphasises his name, or the quiet almost reverential way that he does it. 

 

“I have no idea. I think it’s just stress about the State of the Union - we’re still fighting with State about language and-”

 

“Don’t bullshit me Alexander. You were freaking out the other night and I didn’t help and you’ve been too much of a shit to ask for more help.” Alexander laughs, the sound hollow and brittle as the car pulls up outside of his town house. “What do you need?”

 

There are many answers to that but the simplest is: “I need to sleep.” John makes a sound that Alexander can’t distinguish and he begins to gather his things up. “I’m home now, I’ve got to go.”

 

And for the second time in four days, Alexander hangs up on John before he can reply. 

 

Inside, he is greeted with the smell of dinner and a warm embrace from Eliza. He holds her close for a long minute, drinking in the scent of her. He can feel his racing heart start to slow, some of the tension slip from his shoulders.

 

He has dinner, he has a glass of wine, he watches some television and he makes love to his wife. 

 

When he falls asleep he arrives in a desert, the coldness of the night sand seeping into his bones and when he looks down he can see the blood seep through his fingers, thick and gloopy and not-quite-warm. 

 

Then the pain blooms. 

 

_ Is it you, is it me _

_ Or does nobody know, nobody see _

_ Nobody but me. _


	3. A Different Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got away from me a little.
> 
> I don't live in Washington DC - or even America. I live in a place where a 50 minute drive can get you from one city to another so my geographic knowledge is based entirely on Google Maps and most of my political knowledge of the US is based on The West Wing and Google. Forgive any slips. 
> 
> I would suggest listening to the song in the chapter - A Different Corner by George Michael - as you read. I listened while I wrote so...

_Oh, I don't understand it for you it's a breeze_

_Little by little, you've brought me to my knees_

_Don't you care?_

**_A Different Corner by George Michael_ **

 

Alexander thinks about resigning. Not seriously and not often but it has crossed his mind. He thinks about it when the work piles up, when he doesn’t see sunlight for weeks on end and he thought about it when the job had tried to ruin his marriage. All of those things that Alexander hated about the job, Eliza hated more: not seeing Alexander for days on end even when they weren’t campaigning; having Alexander snapping at her in his stress induced black moods; having no prospect of the kids that Alexander had promised her - not while Washington was in office (which he would be for another six years, hopefully). Eliza had worked with them on Washington’s campaign for Governor (where they’d met) and she’d started working on the Presidential campaign but hadn’t found the same joy in it that he had and had provided her support through not telling Alexander not to follow Washington’s crusade to better their country.

 

It had been Alexander’s acceptance of Washington’s offer of Chief of Staff that had been the tipping point. That and John getting shot. The two things are blurred together and what should have been a joyous celebration of a campaign well won was, for Alexander, shattered with the words from a phone call telling him the John Laurens had been shot in the line of duty. Eliza had been the one to take the phone from him to get the rest of the message after Alexander’s knees had buckled and the ground had rushed up to meet him; Eliza had been the one to deal with Alexander’s total lack of ability to deal with his lack of ability to _do_ anything and she had snapped after the third month of not seeing Alexander, except when he came home to crash and snap and thunder and basically an being absolute ass of a man.

 

He’d spent three weeks sleeping in his office before returning home with his tail between his legs and an apology that had only kind of papered over the cracks.

 

John getting shot had been… It had been nothing, really. A shoulder wound that had invalided him home for 6 months of rehab and physio before he’d shipped back out without seeing Alexander except when Alexander had flown down to the airport just to see John leave. Which had been ridiculous and, if it had been some sort of movie, sort of romantic? And stupid and Alexander had hated every minute of it but he’d also loved it, despite knowing that John was going back to that hell hole. They’d spent forty five minutes in the crappy Starbucks in JFK where John was getting a commercial flight to Berlin and it was the most settled Alexander had been in almost a year.

 

Alexander is, again, thinking about resigning. Not seriously, not really. He’s watching Washington deliver the State of the Union. He’s thinking about the fact that the campaign for re-election basically starts after the speech even though vote is still about two years away. He’s thinking about the fact that he could be here, doing this, living this life for the next six years: juggling his job, his marriage, his stupid dreams, his… his missing John.

 

He checks his watch, a quick glance that he hopes is surreptitious; Washington is perfectly on time. He glances across the chamber to where Mrs Washington is, splendid and perfect and happy for her husband and he smiles slightly.

 

“... We _can_ do better and we _must_ do better…”

 

Alexander will never admit this but he hates these things: Wolcott is a mess of nervous energy and stays out in the atrium; Meade sits back in the White House with his head between his knees trying not to be sick; Angelica _tap-tap-taps_ her fingers on the rail in front of her; Sampson simply stares with rapt attention and Alexander… Alexander can’t wait to get out. There’s a _thing_ back at the White House and another at the OEOB and many other places and Alexander knows that he will have to attend, at least until he gets the feedback but he really just wants to go home and sleep. He knows this speech inside out; he’d worked with Meade and Washington on cadence and pacing and he’s heard it spoken aloud at least 60 times, never mind read sections over and over.

 

He’s not had either of the dreams for a while but then he’s also not been sleeping enough to actually make it into REM sleep.

 

He knows he will sleep well tonight.

 

\--

 

Back at the White House, Alexander stands in the Oval and looks around. He’s still not used it, not really. It’s been two years and, most often, he forgets where he is: the room is usually always busy and even when he’s there alone with Washington it’s almost just like being back in Governor Washington’s office rather than President Washington. But when he’s in it on his own he always finds that he’s a little intimidated by the room; he knows it’s designed to do that but it’s not even the shape of it, it’s the enormity of it - the symbolism. It’s the office of the most powerful man in the US (possibly the world) and here Alexander is, an immigrant (albeit American citizen) standing as the right hand man to the most powerful man in the world.

 

It’s a little overwhelming.

 

It’s no wonder he thinks about resigning again.

 

“Ah, Alexander.” He turns at the voice and steps forward to shake the President’s hand. “I believe that went well.”

 

Alexander smiles.

 

“It certainly did, Mr President.”

 

“You might be able to get some sleep tonight,” Washington continues, moving behind the desk and Alexander watches as he drags his fingertips against the polished wood and he can’t help but smile. He’s obviously not the only one still in awe of the place. “I know I will.”

 

“You’re not inviting us all back to the residence for an all-nighter, then?” Washington huffs out a laugh and Alexander smiles. “I’m meeting with Treasury tomorrow and have another meeting with the Brawn Committee about housing but other than that it’s a pretty light day.” Washington nods and Alexander can see that he has lost him, that Washington is already thinking about heading up to the residence and enjoying some well earned rest. “Is there anything else you need tonight, sir?”

 

“Martha has extended an invitation to you and Eliza for dinner for tomorrow night - I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to say no, especially since she’s asked Pierre to learn how to make that chicken thing you talked about so much at Christmas.” Alexander actually laughs out loud at that, even though he isn’t entirely surprised. “So…?”

 

“I’m actually meeting John Laurens for dinner tomorrow night, we’ve had it arranged since before Christmas since he couldn’t make it over from New York.” He feels stupid saying it but not stupid enough to _not_ say it. He’s been looking forward to this dinner for far too long.

 

“Ah,” Washington murmurs, not used to people turning down his invites for food. “I suppose Martha wouldn’t object-”

 

“It’s fine, sir. John won’t come to the residence - I think he’d die if I even posed it as an option.”

 

Washington huffs out another laugh, quiet and restrained.

 

“He used to eat a KFC family bucket with his bare hands in front of me but now he won’t even come to my house for a civilised dinner?”

 

“It’s a pretty intimidating house, sir.”

 

Washington smiles slightly.

 

“I guess it is.” He hums again and Alexander can see him shifting plans around in his head. “Well, barring any state emergencies I am sure we could squeeze you in on Thursday instead. Pierre is going home for a short break after.” Alexander can tell when his arm is being twisted so he nods and Washington smiles. “Good.” Alexander watches as he shuffles a few pieces of paper on the desk before sighing and rolling his head on his neck. “Anyway, I’m done for the night.” He looks up, the look on his face stern but familial. “Go home, Alexander.”

 

Alexander does just that.

 

\--

 

He won’t admit it but Alexander is a nervous wreck. He hasn’t seen John in over a year and he’s almost convinced that John has been avoiding him so the fact that they are going for dinner, _finally_ , is a little nerve-wracking. Alexander isn’t sure this is how friendship is supposed to work: he’d spent 10 years (or more, maybe less) attached to John’s hip before spending the last four years wondering whether or not John was alive or if the dreams were real and wondering whether or not John was ever coming home.

 

It’s been a stressful time.

 

He changes at the office, making sure that he layers up appropriately for the absolutely abysmal weather that has emigrated to DC: it had started in October with an abnormally early cold snap that hadn’t really lifted; the only difference in weather in the last three months was the ebb and flow of the snow fall. For the first time in weeks the streets are completely clear of snow, although the ice seems more like permafrost than anything else and even though Alexander has been on the mainland for quite some time now, he’s never quite got rid of his love (and biological preference) for the Caribbean heat.

 

He’s stalling so he grabs his hat and gloves and makes his way out of the White House, to the car he’d called a few minutes ago (Nancy had finally gone home, after much promising from Alexander not to touch anything in either of their offices). They’re meeting in a small place in Kensington that Alexander knows John will love -  and it's far enough away from the Capitol that Alexander stands at least a little chance of having a peaceful, uninterrupted dinner.

 

The drive is uncomplicated but the late evening traffic means it takes longer than usual so Alexander texts John to let him know he will be a little late. Fred has some news channel playing on the radio and normally Alexander wouldn’t mind but he needs to switch his brain off a little so he asks for some music instead and he settles in when the slow beat fills the car instead of the inane chatter of the newscasters.

 

The song is an old one and Alexander recognises it from a number of nights in his dorm, in his old college apartment studying with John and Lafayette and Alexander can feel his hands form the grip to hold a pen, an old reflex he has (he’d diagnosed himself with hypergraphia when he was younger and he’s still not changed his mind about that - writing is a necessity to Alexander, especially when he needs to process his thoughts and feelings). He pictures them, fifteen years ago, young and rebellious and rambunctious - ready to take on the world. He remembers that terrible apartment they shared in their second year of grad school, with the skeleton in the corner that Alexander still didn’t believe wasn’t stolen from John’s University; he remembers long nights tapping away at his laptop with John by his side; he remembers John’s hands covering his when they’d both had enough but Alexander hadn’t realised yet; he remembers _John_.

 

Alexander had always wondered - but no. No.

 

He checks his phone then looks out of the window - they’re nearly there.

 

\--

 

Pacci’s is a small Italian restaurant in an old shop building that Theo and Aaron had dragged him to years ago and he’s been back to a few times. It’s not the kind of place people expect the Chief of Staff to eat in and that’s part of why he loves it.

 

When he steps through the door, the smell of garlic and onion hits him and he revels in it for a moment or two before he scans the room looking for John and -

 

There he is. He’s standing behind a table, his arm half-raised in a wave and Alexander knows that he’s grinning like an idiot but he doesn’t care. He walks right up to the table and hesitates for only a second before he steps into John’s personal space and wraps his arms around him. John laughs a bit before his smile presses into Alexander’s neck and Alexander is sure they might be swaying a little bit but who cares? _Who cares?_ John is here and he’s alive and Alexander can smell him and feel him and…

 

“Alexander,” John murmurs eventually but doesn’t step back. “Hi.”

 

Alexander laughs and slides his arms down, pulling himself back a little but not out of John’s embrace entirely. He just _looks_ at him and John lets him, his own eyes tracking over Alexander’s face, his hair, his neck and back up and Alexander wants to reach out and touch the hair on John’s head that’s longer still than even the last time he’d sent a picture - so he does, just as John reaches up to touch Alexander’s hair.

 

They both laugh.

 

“Your hair-” they say at the same time and laugh again and Alexander steps back completely, looking around the room but no one is paying them any attention.

 

“Yeah,” Alexander says when it’s clear John won’t continue. “It was hinted at that a man in my position should at least _look_ like a man in my position so… short hair it is, for now.”

 

John smiles and retakes his seat, his eyes never leaving Alexander.

 

“It’s different.”

 

“You don’t like it?”

 

John shrugs, a tiny smile playing around the edge of his lips that captures Alexander’s attention for a beat too long.

 

“I’m not used to it.” They stare at each other for a full minute, not saying anything and Alexander should feel awkward, he really should, because he can see the warmth in John’s gaze, feel the heat in his own but he can’t help it - doesn’t want to because it has been entirely far too long, almost a year and a half and that just isn’t right. “I’m growing mine out, I think.”

 

“Until they ship you back out, then you’ll mourn the loss of it again.” John makes a noncommittal sound and looks away and Alexander wonders but then realises their waitress has approached the table with a bottle of wine and Alexander raises an eyebrow. “Trying to get me drunk?”

 

John shrugs. “How else am I going to learn all your State secrets?” They quiet whilst the waitress pours their wine and then she takes their order - John is not surprised that Alexander knows what he wants, and John had time to read the menu while waiting for Alexander’s arrival. Once the waitress has gone, John and Alexander go back to staring at each other across the table and Alexander just wants to _touch_ him, to really make sure he’s there. So he does. And it should be weird that he’s sitting in an Italian restaurant in Kensington basically holding the hand of his best friend but it’s _weird_ that they haven’t touched for so long and the warmth of John’s fingers under and around his is the most natural thing in the world.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Alexander manages to say after a while and finally takes a sip of his wine.

 

John smiles and squeezes Alexander’s hand once before pulling his hands back and folding them on the table.

 

“Yeah. About that.” Alexander frowns and tries to pretend that his stomach doesn’t drop at the words because what if John thinks this is weird? What if John is weirded out by Alexander’s affections? Because he has been distant lately, distant and quiet and reluctant to speak to Alexander and he thought he’d been imagining it but what if he’d not been? What if… “I have some news.” He doesn’t continue and Alexander just stares at him. “I… I’ve resigned from the Army.”

 

Something shifts in Alexander but all he does is tilt his head to the side.

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah…” He looks down. “I know it’s not very patriotic and that I shouldn’t… but…” He sighs, a frustrated noise and looks around, as though searching for the words. “After I got shot-” Alexander winces and John’s fingers brush against the back of Alexander's hand again, a small smile on his lips - “I just… I couldn’t really… I didn’t understand what I was doing there. It… really wasn’t what I was expecting, _really_.”

 

And there are things that Alexander wants to say, words he knows he should but what he says instead is an accusatory “I _told_ you-”

 

“Yes,” John interrupts with an eye roll, “you did. You were right. You can gloat.”

 

Alexander feels something inside his chest judder and shake itself loose, the edges of it brushing against his heart and lungs and for the first time in nearly five years he feels like he can breathe a little easier, that there has been a huge knot untied inside of him.

 

He can feel the laugh bubble in his chest and it’s out of his mouth before he can even think to stop it.

 

“I am… Not gloating.” He is out of his chair and around John’s side of the table in an instant, his arms around him in an awkward and frankly horrible hug that is more like a headlock but he can’t help it. The feeling of lightness is spreading through his body, making his arms feel light and free and they can’t help but wrap around John. John, who awkwardly lifts his hands to hold onto Alexander’s bicep and chuckle uncertainly.

 

“I thought you’d be mad,” John says into Alexander’s hair and Alexander pulls back, falling back into a weird squat that makes his quads burn. “We talked so much about serving the country and then I just… gave it up.”

 

“John, I am feeling a lot of things but mad is not one of them.” He stands, staring down at John, at his long and slightly curling hair and his freckles and his eyes that are upturned and looking at Alexander with such intense happiness that Alexander just wants to reach out and touch his face again but - he manages to rein that impulse in and move back around to his own side of the table. “I am so glad - _so_ glad you have no idea the worry - I’m just… yeah.”

 

John smiles at him again.

 

“Well…” He takes another breath and Alexander realises that there is more to come. “I’ve been quiet lately because I’ve been getting some things straightened up and I wanted to tell you sooner but- well, I wanted to do this on my own and as much as I love you I knew I needed to do this on my own and you’d try and help and-”

 

“John,” Alexander interrupts because he’s not sure how much more rambling he can take.

 

“I got a job at HHS,” he says in a rush.

 

Alexander blinks and shakes his head a little because he’s not sure he--

 

“What?”

 

“I got a job working for the Assistant Secretary for Health. I know I should have said-”

 

“You’re going to be in DC?” John pauses and eventually looks back to Alexander before nodding. “Oh my God.” Alexander takes in a breath, trying to control that stupid uptick in his heart rate. “How did I not know this? When do you start? What will you be doing?”

 

“I made sure you didn’t know. No offense-” he says and holds up a hand when he sees Alexander ready to jump in at that. “I wanted to do this on my own and while it’s nice to have the Chief of Staff as my best friend, I don’t need you pulling strings and getting me a job. I needed to get it on my own and if I didn’t, I had a few offers from a couple of hospitals here and Richmond and New York. I’ll be working as an advisor, committee stuff mostly. I get my brief on Monday - that’s when I start.”

 

Alexander can’t believe it.

 

For years he’s worried about John being in Iraq or Afghanistan or Syria or somewhere _worse_ all the while lamenting that John had absconded, that John had deserted all their dreams of changing the world together but here John was, saying he was coming home, that he was coming _home_ to Alexander and working within a stone’s throw of Alexander and…

 

“So, yeah… I missed you, too, I guess,” John continued awkwardly and Alexander isn’t sure whether to burst into relieved tears (which he might, he really _really_ might) or laugh until he cries anyway. “I just… every time you called me after a nightmare it killed me that I couldn’t do more to help and - I mean, I’m not saying I’m going to be rushing around to your apartment to teach you how to breathe every other night but being here… it felt important.” He glances around again, clearly uncomfortable with what he is saying. “More important than anything I was doing, anyway.”

 

“How did I not know this?”

 

John laughs quietly, shifting as the waitress returns with their starters and Alexander watches as she puts them down, wonders how he is ever going to eat because his stomach is doing somersaults and he is giddy and he thinks he might be sick if he even tries to eat anything. But a good sick. A happy sick.

 

If that’s even a thing.

 

“You’re not… I don’t know. Pissed?”

 

“Pissed is not the word I’m looking for.”

 

John smiles at him over their food and Alexander can’t help but meet it.

 

“You love words, Alexander, pick one and put me out of my misery. I was so sure you’d find out before I told you - do you know how difficult it is to keep anything secret from you? And I’m not just talking about my inability to lie to you because let me tell you, not talking to you these past few months has been the worst. No I mean everyone knows you, knows me and I was sure word would get back to you but-”

 

“Happy. That’s the only word I can think right now. Various synonyms for it but I’m just…” He grins and inside his head there’s a high pitched shrieking sound that he really hopes doesn’t make it out of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, I’m not super happy that you haven’t spoken to me in months but… This is worth it.” They eat in companionable silence for a while before Alexander breaks it with questions. “You’re all sorted for a place to stay?”

 

John nods, polishing off his bruschetta.

 

“Dad’s letting me stay in his old townhouse.” Alexander rolls his eyes, murmuring _of course he is_ under his breath and John kicks him lightly under the table. “He says he was going to sell it - no point in keeping it after he stepped down so I bought it off him.”

 

“You _bought_ the townhouse?”

 

“Yeah for like… two dollars. I don’t know, his accountant did the magic and I just accepted the deeds when they were sent to me.”

 

Alexander scoffs.

 

“You didn’t _buy_ it, you inherited it.” John shrugs, a little embarrassed smile alighting his features and Alexander wants to rib him a bit more but he can do that _tomorrow_ or the next day or the next because John is staying. John is staying because Alexander is important. “I hope you’re getting rid of those _awful_ blue velvet curtains in the bedrooms.”

 

John rolls his eyes.

 

“You can pick out the furniture, you weirdo. I wasn’t going to do anything to it.”

 

“John…” he shakes his head, thinks about the townhouse they had stayed in a few times over summers long gone; remembers the guest rooms and waking up beside John as the light filtered through any crack left between the dark, velvet curtains. Maybe he won’t make John change them. Not _all_ of them anyway.

 

“Alexander?” Alexander refocusses again, realising he’d drifted off into memory. “Where’d you go?”

 

Alexander smiles.

 

“Just thinking about the house.” He catches John’s eye, thinks about the blue curtains and he can see that John, too, is thinking of them. The air between them shifts, thickens for a moment before John clears his throat and looks away as the waitress returns. When she leaves, John looks up through his eyelashes and Alexander feels his chest tighten again, but not with fear.

 

He is, without a doubt, screwed.

 

\--

 

Later that night, a little tipsy and a far too wired for how exhausted he is, Alexander falls into bed beside Eliza. Sleep, when it comes, is filled with images of skin and eyes and freckles, of ink-stained hands and quills and blotted parchment and John’s voice, different and a little more proper but still with that South Carolinian drawl he gets when he’s tired or strung out and it’s a sound that Alexander recognises across the ages.

 

_“You cannot retire your post, Alexander. Who will change the world with me?”_

 

When Alexander wakes the next morning to a phone call at 4.30am telling him that the Chief Justice has died, that he needs to get into the office ASAP, that it’ll be another long, long day-week-month all thoughts of resigning are gone.

 

His Laurens has come home.

 

_Take me back in time, maybe I can forget_

_Turn a different corner and we never would have met_

_Would you care?_

**_A Different Corner by George Michael_ **


	4. So you've fallen apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreams were supposed to stop.

_Woah, what if this is all the love you ever get?_

_Woah, you'd do a couple things so differently, I bet_

_Woah, what if this is all the love I ever know_

_Woah, I'd say the words that were so hard to say, don't go_

**_What If This Is All The Love You Ever Get by Snow Patrol_ **

 

Alexander wakes up half hanging out the bed, half tangled in the sheets. He can’t breathe and he can’t see and he thinks he might be sick.

 

Through the pain and fear still pounding through his body, Alexander makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up everything he’s eaten in the last day. His stomach clenches, his throat burns and the tears leak from his eyes but all of this pales in comparison to the utter agony of the fact that _John Laurens is dead._

 

“Alexander?”

 

He can’t match the voice to a face, too occupied by his vomiting but there’s something familiar about it. He wretches again as small warm hands rub his back and he wants to shrug them off because even though they are familiar they are _not right_. He sobs into the toilet bowl as his stomach rolls again but nothing comes up. The voice is shushing him, trying to soothe him but he can’t… He can’t. His heart is tearing into shreds and he can’t stop crying because…

 

“He’s dead.”

 

The hands on his back still and he uses the pause to roll back, to press himself against the cold tiles beside the toilet and lets the tears come freely now. The sobs are ridiculous and painful and in any other situation he’d be embarrassed but he can’t be, not about this because John… God, John.

 

“No, Alexander, he’s not. He’s…” The voice trails off and he feels something being pressed into his hand. “Look.” He opens his eyes, looks down to the phone that has been pressed into his hand and he wonders… A phone? Just moments ago he’d been working by candlelight in his and Eliza’s house when she’d interrupted him with a letter… “Open it. You’ll see.” He presses his thumb over the unlock button and an image flashes up on screen - of him and John and he feels his focus rush back in, zeroing in on the image. “Do you need to call him?” He nods and the voice - Eliza, he realises - takes the phone and he wants to snatch it back, wants to grab it from her hand because he _can’t see John_. “John? It’s Eliza, I’m sorry… It’s bad… Here he is.”

 

The phone is pressed to his ear and he slowly lifts his own hand to hold it there, John’s voice - tired and warm and _alive -_ is speaking to him through the speaker.

 

“ _John,”_ he manages and he can feel the relief sweep through him, feel the tears change from agony to joy and his chest both tightens and releases, opens and closes at the sound of the voice.

 

“Alexander, hi.” And Alexander wants to laugh at the inanity of the words, at the complete and utter ridiculousness of those two words spreading out around Alexander and pulling him back into himself. “You’re all right, you’re totally safe.”

 

“And so are you?”

 

“Yes.” He can hear John breathe in, maybe stifling a yawn and Alexander loves it, loves that sound - so familiar, yet so far away. “I’m here, I’m alive.” There’s a silence through which Alexander breathes. “I’m at the townhouse. You’re right, it really does need decorated - I hadn’t really realised how dated it is. Even the blue velvet curtains man - they gotta go-”  


“No!” Alexander interrupts, more forcefully than he’d intended and John chuckles. “No. Keep them.” And it’s sentimental and stupid a little bit unfair to John but… well. That’s kind of Alexander’s forte. “We can… sort something out.”

 

John is quiet on the other end and Alexander wonders if this time he’s gone too far. If it won’t be death that takes John from him but Alexander’s own thoughtlessness.

 

“We’ll see what we can do. I’m sure we can get them dry cleaned.” Alexander breathes a sigh of relief, dragging a hand down his face. “I actually started sofa shopping the other day but I can’t seem to decide…” And Alexander listens to John talk about redecorating the townhouse for forty-five minutes before John’s voice turns into the deep breaths of sleep.

 

Eliza is back in bed, bookending the mattress and Alexander feels the tangy taste of guilt on his tongue. It keeps him awake the rest of the night, propped against the pillows watching Eliza’s back rise and fall with each breath she takes and wonders when her presence stopped being enough to calm him.

 

\--

 

The August Alexander met Eliza, John was in South Carolina at his mother’s funeral.

 

It had been a good summer; they’d moved into their new apartment after their old landlord hiked the rent up and John had nearly burst his knuckles over the guy’s face when he gave them three days to move out. Lafayette had decided to try his luck with a listing he’d found online but John and Alexander had opted to stay together (because _of course they had, what else would they do?)._ The only problem was that Alexander had lost the screws and a few of the slats of his bed in the move and he and John had shared John’s queen for six weeks before he’d gotten the call from home, before the sun had even risen and Alexander had known it had been bad ( _bad_ bad) when John had turned his back to him to hide the sobs that broke through his usually tough exterior.

 

Alexander had gotten a front row seat to John’s pain and he hadn’t known how to deal with it.

 

He’d offered to fly to South Carolina with John, even got to the point of booking himself a flight when John had lost it, broken down in tears again before telling Alexander that he really just wanted to do _this part_ on his own because he couldn’t handle mixing Alexander and their… friendship with this horrific thing that happened. Alexander had relented, reluctantly, and traveled with John to the airport and held his hand until security and Alexander could go no further.

 

Washington had been surprised when Alexander turned up without John at the meeting that night, then saddened for their stalwart campaigner. He introduced Alexander to his newest recruit, Angelica Schuyler - the replacement for Lee who had totally screwed them over in a press conference that could have cost Washington the governorship if John hadn’t been so quick to deal with - and her sister.  

 

When John came back six weeks later, he bought Alexander a new bed and had moved out a year later.

 

They hadn’t shared a bed since that morning John had taken the phone call.

 

It took Alexander far too long to put things together and, by the time he had, he was already married and John had flown off to some war torn country to get blown to bits.

 

 

\--

 

“Alexander,” Angelica calls from just outside of his door and he looks up, ushering her in. “Why does the New York Evening Post have a picture of you on a date with John Laurens?”

 

Alexander stills and he looks up from where he’s been reading the latest economic forecast from Treasury.

 

“Pardon?”

 

She quirks an eyebrow and a too smug smile creeps up the corner of her lips.

 

“Someone has sent them a picture of you at dinner with John. I’ve squashed it - he’s the new advisor at HHS, you’re old friends, you have this vote on Affordable Healthcare…” She trails off and Alexander knows that he is supposed to nod along, so he does. She holds his gaze for a moment too long, her eyes sharper than usual and Alexander can feel the skin on the back of his neck crawl. “Good.” She nods, pivots on her heel and leaves.

 

He watches her retreating back until Nancy fills the doorway. She simply stares at him with a raised eyebrow, admonishing him in her own very particular and very obvious way.

 

“Oh, go away,” he murmurs and turns back to the file in front of him.

 

He waits until he’s sure she’s gone before reaching for his phone. No new messages. He wants to talk to someone but isn’t sure who will reply: Eliza has been quiet the last two days since the dream, brushing off his attempts to talk to her and he can’t really say that he blames her; John has been equally as quiet but he puts that down to John settling into his new job because any other answer sends him into a tailspin. He taps the phone a few times, scrolling through his recent message threads and realizes he really doesn’t have that many people he _can_ talk to and isn’t that just sad? He’d tried reaching out to his dad and brother back in the Caribbean but other than a few strained emails and Facebook messages it had proved fruitless: neither had really forgiven him for crowdfunding his way out of that hellhole after his mother died. He’d let his friendship with Ned go and he isn’t really sure if he even has his most recent number (he knows it wouldn’t be too hard for him to find it out, given who he is, but that feels like the kind of violation that further alienates people…)

 

He clicks on Lafayette’s message thread, looking at the date of the last message and realizes it’s been nearly three weeks and he feels bad. Lafayette had sent a string of messages detailing his latest run in with some underling or other in the House and Alexander had replied with a ‘lol’.

 

He spends far too long crafting a message to his friend and eventually hits send. He’s relieved when the three dots pop up pretty much instantaneously.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon texting back and forward with Lafayette, in between meetings and briefings and shouting at idiots who think they can write political speeches. It feels good, it feels normal and by the end of it, he has arranged to meet Lafayette at The Place for a drink before heading home.

 

\--

 

When Alexander arrives at The Place he’s surprised to see Mulligan there, too: it’s not often the head of Presidential Detail gets time off to spend in a bar. Alexander grins when he sees them both and heads towards their table.

 

“Oh, Alexander,” Lafayette bemoans before Alexander has even taken his coat off, his French accent artificially thick, “you look ill! You have that lovely White House tan and your suit is falling off you.” He reaches out and grabs the waist of Alexander’s suit jacket. “This is a travesty.”

 

Mulligan nods when Alexander looks at him.

 

“You look like shit.” Mulligan looks behind Alexander to where Charlie lingers by the doorway and nods and when Alexander turns, Charlie is gone. “I’ll need to tell Charlie and Dolpho to make sure you get enough sunshine, too, as well as keeping Jefferson and Adams away from you.”

 

Alexander can’t help it - he rolls his eyes.

 

“Well, the day the sun shines for the first time this year I’ll make sure I’m out in it - I’ll have Charlie and Dolpho move my desk into the Rose Garden.”

 

“Your allergies will kill you.”

 

Alexander freezes at the voice, barely resists the urge to turn around and throw his arms around John. An arm snakes past Alexander’s waist, depositing a glass of white wine on the table in front of him and Alexander turns his head, glances at John over his shoulder.

 

“Hello, John.”

 

“Alexander, hi.” And the words are the exact same as the ones from after the dream and Alexander shivers, knows that John does too from the way they hold each others’ eyes for a beat too long.

 

“Aw! You knew he was back?” Alexander and John both roll their eyes and John moves to the side, his own wine glass still in his hand. Alexander reaches out for the one on the table, taking a sip from it before nodding to Lafayette. “Of course you did, what was I thinking?”

 

And just like that, Alexander settles more completely into himself than he has in a very long time - years, possibly. He shrugs out of his suit jacket before sliding into the booth beside John, settling a little closer than he should but still further than he wants. John’s leg shifts slightly, his knee bumping Alexander’s for the briefest of moments before resettling away from him. Alexander wants to look, wants to see if it was deliberate but the calmness that rolls over him from head to toe is enough.

 

He just sits there for a few minutes soaking in the conversation, easy and enjoyable.

 

“Oh, shut up!” He laughs when Lafayette tells a ridiculous story about when he’d gone back to New Orleans on the campaign with Washington. “That did not happen. You know it didn’t happen, I know it didn’t happen - hell, all of Louisiana knows that didn’t happen!”

 

They banter back and forth for another hour, another two glasses of wine, another trek through memory and nostalgia before Alexander has to call it a night. The wine, the lack of sleep has caught up with him all of a sudden and he needs to be in the office at six the next morning for a phone call with India.

 

As they wait for their cars, John stands by Alexander because _of course he does_.

 

“Are you all right?” Alexander looks up at him, surprised. “After the other night. Eliza text me the next day, said you’d been sick.”

 

Alexander looks away.

 

“Yeah. It was a bad one. Took me a while to come back.” Alexander feels John’s gloved hand on his sleeve, the touch light even through three layers. He takes a breath, watches as it erupts in a cloud on the out-breath and shakes his head. “I thought they’d stop now that you’re… You know, back.”

 

John’s smile is a little sad, a little too slow to form and Alexander wants to look away from it but can’t.

 

“Maybe they will. Maybe it was just the shock of… of seeing me? That sounds conceited and egotistical but-”

 

“No, you’re- maybe. That might be it.”

 

They stare at each other for a long, long moment before Alexander’s car pulls up and Mulligan is there opening the door for him. He turns to Mulligan with a bemused smirk but Mulligan just shrugs and looks away and Alexander realises Mulligan hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night.

 

“Goodnight, sir. Charlie will be at your house already.”

 

Alexander rolls his eyes but thanks Mulligan anyway and ushers him away. Lafayette comes up and takes Alexander in a forceful hug. “Don’t get too carried away by him calling you sir, asshole.”

 

Alexander laughs and pushes Lafayette away.

 

“That’s Mr Chief of Staff to you, Congressman.”

 

John snorts.

 

“No one will ever call you that. Is that even your title?”

 

“It should be.”

 

“No, it shouldn’t be.”

 

“Ah,” Lafayette interrupts with a dream like voice. “I am having a sense of deja vu.” He pats both of them on the shoulder and turns when his own car pulls up. “It has been good to see you both. John, I am glad you are back and safe and doing what you should always have been doing.” John smiles and claps Lafayette’s shoulder. “And Alexander…” Lafayette looks him up and down, “get some sunshine on that skin of yours.”

 

“Good _night_ , Gilbert.”

 

Lafayette scoffs but slides into his car, thanking Mulligan who is also holding his door open.

 

“I’ll wait-”

 

“You will not,” John interrupts, moving to hold Alexander’s door, despite Alexander’s glare. “Get in the car, you’ll freeze.” Alexander hesitates and John rolls his eyes. “Hercules is here to keep me company until my car gets here. Get in the car.” Alexander finally does as bid and slides in, laughing when John leans down to murmur “Good night, text me when you get in,” before closing the door.

 

As the car moves away from the curb, Alexander settles in against the warm seats.

 

“Good night, Mr Hamilton?” Fred asks and Hamilton nods, because _yes_ it has been a good night.

 

They chat away quietly as they drive through downtown to Hamilton’s own town house - not as grand or opulent as the Laurens’ town house but not insignificant either - and when they pull up outside the house is in darkness. He bids Fred good night and when he steps out Charlie is there by his side.

 

“Mrs Hamilton isn’t at home this evening,” Charlie says and Alexander is surprised. “Please wait in the hall.” As he waits for Charlie to finish his sweep of the house, Alexander checks his phone but there are no new messages from Eliza detailing where she might be. “All clear.” Alexander smiles. “We’ll be next door, as usual. We’ll escort Mrs Hamilton in when she arrives.” Alexander nods and steps into the house, now lit by the table lamps in the hallway and lounge. “Good night, sir.”

 

“Thanks, Charlie.”

 

The door closes behind him and Alexander stands in the hallway for entirely too long. The house is cold, no residual heat from the day and he wonders how long Eliza has been gone. He hangs his coat in the cupboard, makes his way to the kitchen for a drink when he sees the note on the table. He knows what it’s going to say before he even steps up to it so he just stands and stares at it for a long moment, the cream parchment clearly from his ‘secret’ stash of good paper in his desk. It looks sickly, in this light, with his name scrawled in Eliza’s familiar calligraphy across the folded page.

 

He snatches at it, flicks it open with a sigh and is not surprised by anything he sees written there, except the destination.

 

_‘Alexander,_

 

_I’ve gone to father’s in Albany for a while. I just need a break - these last few months (years, maybe?) have been hard on both of us. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep on both our parts but I can’t help but think there is something missing. Perhaps, with time apart, we will both figure out what that is._

 

_Please give me this time. I’ll answer if you call but please have something to say if you do._

 

_I love you._

 

_E.”_

 

He scrunches the paper into a ball and throws it across the room, his breath catching in his chest. He lets out a low scream, not wanting to catch the attention of the secret service next door but he just wants to shout something, or smash something and the gentle arc of the paper falling just wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

 

It’s John.

 

_‘Are you home?’_

 

The sound of his phone cracking against the far wall is much more satisfying.

 

_What if it hurts like hell_

_Then it'll hurt like hell_

_Come on over, come on over here_

_I'm in the ruins too_

_I know the wreckage so well_

**_What If This Is All The Love You Ever Get by Snow Patrol_ **


End file.
